A Honey 'Verse Great Game
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: You all know the drill. The Great Game with a Honey 'Verse twist. As always lemme know what you think of it.
1. Chapter 1

**A Honey 'Verse Great Game**

**Prologue**

He hated visiting prisons. Especially foreign ones. But he had promised John that he'd go see this inmate that was asking for his help. He hadn't wanted too but when John got that look in his eyes he knew better than to argue. Still, John was going to pay for forcing this indignity upon him.

He let his mind plan and categorize all the different ways to have his revenge on his husband as he was led through the security. The guard on the right was in the middle of a messy divorce, two children and a dog. The other one was meeting his almost girlfriend after work for drinks and hopefully more though the guard was nearly positive it wouldn't happen.

They waved him through with bored expressions. Another guard met him and led him down the hall to a large room with tables and steel chairs. She looked him over appraisingly and then seemed to shake off any attraction. Low self-esteem, thought she was larger than she actually was, a string of bad relationship and the only company she had was a…zinnia that was dying from lack of attention.

He took a seat at one of the tables and waited for the accused to be brought to him. He glanced up when the door opened again and scowled down at the table. Guilty. Boring. Dull. What he wouldn't give for something, anything, to make him think. He was going insane with nothing to do.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Bewick asked hesitantly as he sat across from Sherlock. He was clean-shaven and clean but there was a look in his eyes that told his story. He wasn't remorseful at all. He was proud of what he'd done and simply didn't think he'd be caught. More fool him. "You are Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his scowl deepened. "Obviously," he drawled. He waved a hand negligently towards the man. "Just tell me what happened from the beginning," he instructed.

Mr. Bewick wrapped his hands around each other and nodded slowly. "We'd been to a bar," he said slowly and Sherlock kept his huff of exasperation to himself. He was already bored and the man had barely said ten words. John was going to be paying for this for years. "Nice place," Bewick commented. "And I got chatting with one of the waitresses," on purpose to make his girlfriend jealous no doubt, Sherlock surmised. "And Karen weren't happy with that," wasn't, Sherlock corrected in his head. Bewick gave a helpless shrug. "So when we get back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?" Pride laced his voice for anyone that would care to notice. He'd engineered an argument so that he could kill his girlfriend and move on.

Sherlock let out a bored sigh and watched his breath cloud in the chilly air. Bewick glared and Sherlock simply stared at him in an effort to force him to move things along. He wanted to go home already. Belarus was even more boring than London at the moment.

Bewick finally relented and continued with his narrative. "She was always getting at me, sayin' I weren't a real man."

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. Enough was enough already. He was already bored beyond belief he shouldn't have to put up with the absolutely travesty of Bewick execrable grammar. "Wasn't a real man," he corrected the man aloud.

Confusion clouded Bewick expression and alleviated a bit of the boredom pounding on Sherlock's brain. "What?" He asked belligerently.

"It's not 'weren't', it's 'wasn't'," Sherlock explained in a bland tone. Grammar lesson over for the moment. Hope you learned something, he thought to himself though he held out little hope for that.

Bewick's head nodded in a gesture of understanding but his eyes gained a coldness that would have made Sherlock feel a bit edgy if the other man weren't handcuffed. "Oh."

The two men shared a long stare. Then Sherlock's extremely limited patience gave out. "Go on," he encouraged.

Bewick smirked as though he won something and Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes at the other man. Bewick wetted his lips with his tongue and gave a shake of his head. "Well, then I don't know how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands." A touch too much pleasure in the telling. "You know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." Bewick leaned forward, earnestness painting his expression. Callouses on his fingers told the truth of that statement. "He learned us how to cut up a beast."

"Taught," Sherlock interrupted before he could censor himself. Though the confusion and growing anger in the other man's face was amusing.

"What?" Bewick snapped.

"Taught you how to cut up a beast," Sherlock explained. Obviously Bewick hadn't paid attention in school.

Bewick drew in a deep breath in an effort to center himself and put on a mask of amiability. "Yeah, well, then I done it."

"Did it," Sherlock corrected again.

"Did it!" Bewick shouted and slammed a hand on the table. "Stabbed her over and over and over," he struck the table again every time he said 'over'. "And I looked down and she weren't…" Sherlock sighed and Bewick glared. "Wasn't moving no more," Sherlock stared at the ceiling in a vain attempt to call up his patience. "Any more," Bewick ground out. Bewick folded his hands together again and stared down at them. "God help me," he said softly. "I don't know how it happened, but it was an accident, I swear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, bit back a disappointed groan and uncrossed his legs in preparation to stand. Bewick's eyes widened. Sherlock put his palms flat on the table and stood up, pushing his chair backwards with a screech of metal on concrete.

"Hey!" Bewick called after him as Sherlock walked away. "You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes." Shrelock paused but kept his back to Bewick. "Everyone says you're the best." Oh he was but there was nothing he could or would do to help Bewick. "Without you, I'll get hung for this."

Sherlock turned halfway around and smirked at the other man. "No, no, no, Mr. Bewick, not at all." Sherlock's smirk widened. "Hanged, yes." Sherlock turned away and walked from the room. A futile trip but at least John couldn't yell at him for not going and John would be fine with him not taking the case once he knew the details. On top of that…there was revenge to be handed out. That would keep the boredom at bay for a few hours anyway.


	2. Bored!

**Disclaimer: Okay so I forgot to put this up on the first chapter…er, prologue, whatever. Sue me. Seriously. The only thing I have of any worth is my children. I'd say you could have 'em but that's kinda illegal. So…anyway…Sherlock and Co. are not mine no matter how much I wish for them. Some wishes aren't meant to come true and this is probably a good thing that it won't. Sherlock and my son in the same room? Not a good combo if I'd like to stay living in my house. My son is a mad scientist and Sherlock would only encourage him. So yeah. They aren't mine and they never will be.**

**Chapter One: Bored!**

John instinctively ducked his head at the sound of the gunshots coming from his flat. He straightened up after a moment and rolled his eyes. Great. Sherlock was bored. Again. Damn. Well at least the bounder was home safe. Made killing him so much easier.

Sherlock heard the front door slam and smiled a bit. Finally. John's new job with Mycroft's handpicked clinic was getting in the way again. He needed John home with him. John made everything entertaining. And if John was here then John wasn't off getting kidnapped or shot or tortured. John safe was good.

Hearing John's footsteps pounding up the stairs Sherlock leveled the gun at the smiley face on the wall with his eyes closed. He pulled the trigger. And again. And again. Adjusting his aim slightly more away from the door with each pull. Wouldn't do to shoot John on accident after all and that damn smiley face was mocking him. One more pull and John should start shouting just…about…now.

"Sherlock!" Right on time. John always had been a punctual child and it seemed he was even as an adult. "What the HELL are you doing?"

Sherlock stared at the air in front of him. "Bored," he told his husband in a quiet, monotone voice.

John drew in a deep breath at the answer he had more than half expected. Sherlock was looking for entertainment. Or a good fight. Though in Sherlock's world that was entertainment too. "What?" He finally asked in a fake confused tone.

The dark haired Sherlock straightened a bit in his armchair, turned his head and opened his eyes to gaze at his husband. "Bored!" He said a bit louder. He jumped to his feet and waved the gun around.

Knowing exactly what Sherlock was about to do, John covered his ears. "No!" He attempted to stop Sherlock even knowing that it was futile. Sherlock was in a mood and there was little John could do to alleviate it until the younger man calmed down.

Sherlock shot the wall again. "Bored!" He put the hand holding the gun behind his back and twisted a bit to shoot again. "Bored!" John rushed over when Sherlock's arm came back around and pulled the gun from his hand. "I don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock complained.

John emptied the remaining bullets from the gun onto his desk and rolled his eyes. "Vacation," he suggested though he doubted Sherlock heard or cared if he had.

Sherlock strolled over to inspect the holes in the smiley face. "Good job I'm not one of them," he commented.

John sighed. He was tired and the rain had his leg and shoulder acting up again. He didn't know if he could handle one of Sherlock's moods today. "So you take it out on the wall?" He asked mildly.

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa under the smiley face. "The wall had it coming," he muttered.

John rubbed at his temple and stalked into the kitchen. "I'm sure it did," he studied the chaos on the table and sighed. "Anything to eat? I'm starving."

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and waited impatiently for John to open the fridge. There was no yelp of shock even though he'd clearly heard the door open.

"Sherlock?" John called. The only hint of strain in his voice was a slight raise in octave. Damn him for being so unflappable. "Why is there a heading staring at me from our refrigerator?"

"He's dead, John, obviously," Sherlock scoffed. "He cannot possibly be looking at you. It's your imagination."

"Right, of course," John murmured as he softly shut the door on the head with the unsettling eyes that did stare at him no matter what Sherlock said. "But what's it doing in our refrigerator? You know where we normally keep food." He paused and shot a horrified look into the parlor. "You're not planning on cooking his brains or something, are you, Sherlock? Because if you are then I'm calling Mycroft and we're staging an intervention." He crossed to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the jamb so that he could watch his husband's reaction.

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't be idiotic," he sneered. "It's an experiment on salvia coagulation after death."

"I see," John said slowly and then crossed the room to stand beside the dark haired man. "I really am starving and there's no food in the flat. Wanna go to Angelo's with me?"

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared even harder. "Not hungry," he said irritably.

John squeezed onto the sofa beside Sherlock's feet and rubbed his leg. "Want me to order in a Chinese?"

Sherlock uncrossed his arms and covered his face with his hands. "I said I'm not hungry, you idiot! Are you deaf as well as crippled?"

John stood up and glared back at his petulant husband. "Well I am hungry, you arrogant berk." He stalked across the room and grabbed up his jacket. He thrust his arms into it and strode for the door.

Sherlock pulled his hands from his face and stared at John's retreating back. "Wait! Where are you going?" He called after him.

"Out," John snarled back at him and walked out the door.

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

Sherlock scowled and flopped back on the sofa. The ache in his chest was ignored. He hated fighting with John but his brain was rotting. There was no stimulation. What was wrong with the criminal classes? Actually, he considered for a moment, why had the police suddenly had an upswing of intelligence? He dismissed that thought quickly. The police hadn't had an injection of intelligence. That was a preposterous notion.

His head lifted a bit at the knock on the open door. He knew it wasn't John. John had just walked out and he wouldn't knock anyway. Still his traitorous heart pounded just a bit in hope. "Whoo whoo," Mrs. Hudson cooed. Sherlock dropped his head down and ignored her as much as he could. "Have you two had a little domestic?"

Sherlock groaned and climbed off of the sofa. He didn't look over to Mrs. Hudson. He didn't want to talk about it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stalked to the window. He really hated fighting with John and he wasn't even sure what they had been fighting about. He knew he was being difficult but usually John bore it all in his stride.

Mrs. Hudson set the bags in her hands on the kitchen table and glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock's sulking form. She gave a dramatic shudder. "Oooh, it's a bit nippy out there," she observed. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sherlock just snorted in derision. He wasn't going to let her guilt trip him. He used one finger to push the curtain aside and watched John disappear down the street. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets. John had forgotten his gloves again.

No, he told himself. He wasn't going to get sucked into worrying about his husband. John was a grown man and could take care of himself. Besides, John had walked out of his own free will. If his hands froze then it was his own fault. Sherlock had other things to obsess over.

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said lowly in an effort to put aside his anxiety over the argument with John. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful." He uttered the words as though they were curses. He drew in a breath and let it out in a despondent sigh. "Isn't it hateful?"

Mrs. Hudson turned her back to him so that he wouldn't see her fond smile. She was sure he knew it was there but as long as he couldn't see it he'd let her get away with her affection. "I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock," she tried to comfort him. "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up." She put the receipt for the groceries she'd bought them on the table, gathered her purse and walked out of the kitchen towards the door.

Sherlock sighed again. "Can't come too soon," he muttered. Hopefully, a good murder would put his brain to use and then he wouldn't fight with John because he was bored.

Mrs. Hudson stifled a chuckle. Patience had never been one of Sherlock's virtues. She headed out the door and stopped suddenly. "Hey," she exclaimed. "What have you done to my bloody wall?"

Sherlock slowly turned to regard the bullet ridden smiley face and couldn't stop the half smile from crossing his lips. The face should have known better than to mock him. Stupid wall had it coming.

Mrs. Hudson saw the smile and scowled. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she informed him. "Not John's, mind you, yours." She bustled off down the stairs muttering imprecations against bored geniuses with no impulse control the whole way.

Sherlock ignored her and grinned at the face. A moment later he sighed and scowled. Now he was even more bored. He really wished John had stayed. Even if they fought. He should probably text him and apologize. Even if he didn't know what he was apologizing for.

He took a step towards the table where his phone lay and then found himself face down on the parlor floor. Heat and glass rained down over his back and he curled himself up in a ball. What the Hell was going on?


End file.
